July 19th: Holding a Bridge

July 19th
Paserela Bridge
Midday


"These damned summers," grumped one of the grognards in the unit as a few of the men leaned against the stone of the bridge peering down into the waters of whatever river that was which flowed beneath them, "Portugal, Spain, it's all hot around here."

Another man chuckled, "They're the same summers back home. It got this hot in France sometimes too, you just don't remember, you're getting old."

"Not where I lived it didn't," argued the first soldat, "I was raised in Normandie."

The men were part of a detachment from the 86eme Ligne dispatched on ahead of the rest of the regiment to occupy the old stone bridge. A veteran sergeant was placed in command as apparently none of the officers could be spared for a unit of 30 men. The 86th was below strength after all this campaigning, the whole army was. Replacements were few and sometimes never even arrived, ambushed in Spain or as they marched across Portugal too.

And then there was English army lurking about, sometimes retreating, sometimes advancing, always determined to prevent the Emperor from having peace in the Peninsula. The fighting and marching seemed to go on forever as far as a lot of the ordinary enlisted men seemed to think.


******

Sgt.Brunet took a sip from the bottle of wine he had fished out of his pack as he stood on the far side of the bridge, if the English were to come they'd come down that road stretching across the plain. There was flat ground on both sides of the bridge though the banks were steep and the river fast enough to prevent any wagons, caissons, and artillery from doing anything other than having to use the bridge. The one problem was the tree lines along the banks on both sides and tall marsh grasses too, that could give an enemy an approach avenue.

Still orders were orders. The battalion major had explained the French didn't have the manpower to place large numbers of men on every bridge, every crucial crossroads, or village. The sergeant had been ordered to guard the structure and send for help if the English actually did approach but had also been assured not to worry as the English army was far off. He would do his best.

*******

Francois Seviere had removed his pack, glad to be rid of that weight, and sat down on the side of the road just off the south side of the bridge. He was tired, he was hot, and he was hungry. Least the word to the men was that they'd be staying in one place for a week before being replaced. There was a river, some shade, and no marching. He and the others hoped it would prove to actually be somewhat relaxing.

The lumbering ox-cart came up slowly through the village towards the bridge, the Spanish curses of the owner easily heard. In the hot sun, the team did not want to move quite as quick as their master wished, and from the curses he flung at their ears everybody familiar with the local dialect could easily deduce that the man also didn't want to be outside during this hour, but that a broken trace had held him up and he now had to travel in this heat to make it to his destination in time.

The large cart was covered with a tarpaulin, but under it several large round shapes were visible.

Navarre perched on the wall of the bridge, his eyes scanning the reeds and treeline of the other bank. His mind, however, was several miles back where they'd seen what looked to be a small hamlet; poor, but there would be a few animals at least, and possibly wine.

When it got dark, he was resolved to find out. It was a pity that Quentin was still laid up after tangling with that Portuguese whore... Navarre shook his head. Stupid bastard. And with Davout gone, of his original band, that left just Couture. Gauvin might be relied upon. And possibly Laramie. Kerjean would be useful, but as far as Navarre was concerned, the man was too much of a bleeding heart for this sort of work. And Géne -- Navarre's frown turned into a scowl -- Géne shouldn't even have been on duty yet.

A cry and a splash from below him brought Navarre sharply back to the present, his hand tightening around his musket and every muscle ready to fling himself into the cover of the bridge wall. But looking down he saw only Gauvin dragging a sodden and spluttering Bielieux out of the water. The Southerner muttered something in his own language and spat in to the river.

But there was something else, beneath the sounds of water and laughter. Navarre straightened up, listening.

"What is it?" Caporal Eugéne St-Laurent asked, drawing alongside.

"Wheels, animals... wagon or some such."

Francois heard it too, angry Spanish and definite sounds of a wagon, besides the splashing down below which the young conscript knew to be a couple of their men. He looked in the direction of the sound and sure enough there was a wagon slowly moving toward the bridge.

"Caporal? Should I tell Sgt. Brunet?" Francois asked of St.Laurent.

"Aye, best let him know," he replied, then leaning over the side of the bridge called, "Gauvin! Bielieux! Quit mucking about and get up here."

The cart rumbled closer. It was unlikely that the owner hadn't seen the French by now, but he was not of a disposition to hail the French as friends and seemed to prefer the conversation of his oxen to theirs. For all he seemed to care, the soldiers could be strangely clad gargoyles on the stonework.

"Sergeant, something is coming on the road toward us, a cart or wagon of some sort," young Francois reported to the old sergeant.

"Very well, just one?" Brunet put his wine bottle away in his rather stuffed pack, he was an inveterate looter from long experience. Germany and Austria had been much easier to pillage though, more civilized. This damn Spanish countryside, it was a hard land filled with dangerous folk, the Spaniards.

"Yessir," Francois nodded.

Brunet could have pointed out to the lad he was not an officer and did not need to addressed as 'sir' but in truth he was in charge here. It felt good not to have to attend to and obey officers for once.

"Well, unless there are twenty guerillas hiding in that one wagon of yours it should be safe enough. Let's go take a look and see what it's carrying," Brunet grunted and headed that way.

Exchanging a look with Couture, Navarre drifted into the middle of the road, hailing the driver of the cart in near perfect Spanish.

Being addressed in his own tongue, the man at least dredged up enough interest to return the greeting curtly and telling Navarre that he was the local Carter and already late, so if the French would move out of the way ...?

He seemed neither friendly, nor particularily unfriendly, but mostly annoyed at the possible further delay.

"What's he saying?" Foucheaux asked, eyeing the man warily. "Did you ask him what's in the cart? Let's take a look at it."

"Well, if you're already late, what's a few more moments?" Navarre asked, his tone deceptively light. Couture moved in slowly, signaling with a jerk of his head that Foucheaux should do the same as Navarre demanded, "What's in the back?"

"Nothing that belongs to you!", the man muttered under his breath before loosening a corner of the tarpaulin and lifting it.

"There. Food, wine, and crockery for the inn down the road, a new carpet for a widow two villages over, and a collection of odds and ends for a seamstress."

Sgt. Brunet was not an educated man, he could not even read or write and he definitely did not know Spanish so he had no idea what the fellow was yammering on about as he arrived at the cart only that the man looked perturbed. Not that Brunet cared what the Spaniard was going on about. However, upon catching sight of the goods in the back of the cart, his eyes sparked up.

"Hmmm, what have we here?" he smiled.

"Navarre, what is he saying?"

Francois stood just off behind the sergeant, his eyes too couldn't help but go to that loaded wagon. The army of Napoleon lived by foraging and well...no nice way around it, looting the locals. Before he entered the army he would have been scandalized but with his hatred of the Spanish and Portuguese now, he really didn't care anymore.

"Wine and food for a local inn, Sergent," Navarre reported. "Ah, but he'll never make it in this heat, not loaded down as he is. Only right to lighten his load, wouldn't you say?"

"Sausages!" Foucheaux exclaimed, eyes shining as he examined the contents of a basket he had lifted from the wagon. This was exactly the outcome he had hoped for when assigned to guard the bridge.

The face of the waggoner slowly turned red.

"These goods were paid for! You can't just take them, Senor! Buy your own!"

Sgt. Brunet didn't actually know what the Spaniard was saying but the anger was obvious. The man must have realized the French were looking over his goods and it wasn't to buy them. The Frenchman only smiled.

"Yes, Navarre, I think you are right. Besides, how do we know this fellow is not taking all of this out to supply some guerillas lurking in the hills? I'll be damned if we sit here hungry and thirsty while some Spanish thieves and murderers stuff themselves."

"Alright men, leave the carpets but let's take the rest off the wagon," he ordered.

"And Navarre, tell him if he doesn't like it, he can write a letter of protest to the Emperor," Brunet smirked.

Francois knew it was hardly fair but then the Spanish weren't fair either in their treatment of French stragglers, wounded, or God forbid prisoners.
The man should be consider himself lucky, some soldiers would have just murdered him.

Navarre told the driver exactly what he could do, but it did not involve imperial correspondence.

Vaulting into back of the wagon, Couture began handing down everything that looked remotely edible, grinning as he passed Foucheaux the sausages.

"Cheer up, Paulot," laughed Gauvin, clasping the other man's shoulder as he peered himself at the contents of the wagon.

"Aye," agreed Couture, stacking another tarred goatskin full of wine into Kerjean's arms. "Ain't like we're killin' him for it."

Foucheaux wasted no time before biting into one of the sausages. He swore under his breath, grinning. "They're spicy!" he exclaimed, tossing one to Sevière and taking another bite of his own.

Francois watched with mouth watering as his comrade chomped into one of those delicious looking sausages, he hadn't had anything like that since back home. Foucheaux must have noticed and tossed him one of the treats.

Catching it, Francois then took a bite and chewed with real pleasure, "I like spicy things."

He'd never have guessed this bridge guard duty might turn out to be so ...pleasant . He wondered if other merchants might come by, hopefully they too would have food and wine. Afterall there were thirty hungry thirsty soldiers stationed here.

"Senores! You can't do that!", the waggoner protested indignantly, although he was to wise to give any real provocation or bodily try to prevent the soldiers from taking anything.

"I'm a a Spaniard! Your Emperor has declared us part of the Empire! You can't rob me! Messieurs ...", the last was the only French word in the whole litany, and it was spoken with a gruesome accent, but he uttered it rather forcefully, as if this small tribute to the French tongue could make the soldiers see reason.

"I will complain to the king! You can't do this! You ... no, no, no senores! That's rat poison!"

The man waved his hands widely when the soldiers unloaded another of the small wooden barrels that were often used to transport cured meat and other preserves.

Navarre's expression sharpened. "Rat poison, is it? Couture," he called switching back to French, "Break open that cask."

Smirking, Couture set the barrel down and stove in the top with the butt of his musket.

Sgt. Brunet growled, "What is he raving on about now? "

He watched the soldier smash in the cask.

"Navarre, damn you, what's up?" he glared at his own man.

The barrel contained a number of small sausages and some small sacks which were found to contain barley, although of rather bad quality and with parts of other plants in it. Another bag contained dried laurel leaves, while every space in between was filled with fine, dry sand.

"What kind of sausages are those?" Foucheaux asked eagerly.